


third wheel ;

by therentyoupay



Category: Frozen (2013), How to Train Your Dragon (Movies), Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/M, Horror Movie Night, Modern AU, Possibly:, Reincarnation, Third Wheels, movie theaters, wingman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 03:53:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4989223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therentyoupay/pseuds/therentyoupay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a widely-known fact that Jackson Overland, notably charming fiend of the local state university and resident prankster of the campus among, is not an incredibly dedicated fan of horror movies.</p><p> </p><p>— In which two (sort of) Third Wheels find themselves sitting next to one another in the middle of a horror movie. Hint: One of them is more likely to freak than the other. Double-Hint: It's not Elsa. { Jack/Elsa, Hiccup/Astrid, Kristoff/Anna ; Modern Crossover AU }</p>
            </blockquote>





	third wheel ;

**Author's Note:**

> _10/12/15_. A new ficlet/one-shot! Unlike my usual dilemma of "one-shot turned multi-chaptered monster," this one was actually supposed to be a lot longer but I'm just gonna go ahead and post what I've got. I have too many WIPs and too many grad school papers to write, so I'm just gonna cut my losses with this one. :P Plus, it's almost Halloween!! :)
> 
>  
> 
>  ** _Loosely_ Inspired/Based Off of the Following Prompts:**  
>  \- "We are strangers sitting next to each other during a scary movie and I totally just grabbed your hand but you haven’t pulled away" AU  
> \- Reincarnation/Ghosts  
> \- Third Wheel/Wingman  
> \- "scared"
> 
>  **TW:** Slight mentions of blood/vague descriptions of gore as part of horror movie watching experience. Just a heads up!

 

* * *

**third wheel ;**

* * *

 

It is a widely-known fact that Jackson Overland, notably charming fiend of the local state university and resident prankster of the campus among, is not an incredibly dedicated fan of horror movies.

“What’s the big deal?” asks Astrid, who doesn’t understand Jack’s dilemma. They move up the barest half a step in line, but it’s credited more to general impatience than any actual movement of the movie theater parade. “You never mind a little gore on stuff like Game of Thrones or Breaking Bad or anything,” she says, like that should explain everything.

Hiccup, the willing traitor, considers Astrid’s point with newfound appeal, and Jack watches in mild annoyance as his roommate turns over this compelling argument in his mind. Dude. _Betrayal_.

“Astrid,” says Jack, with the tone of one who is valiantly trying to sound reasonable, even when reason does not actually seem to be a factor. He holds onto his bag of popcorn—medium, with extra butter, because _hey_ , _you only live once_ —in one hand and briefly clenches his other fist in his hoodie pocket. “You know it’s not the gore,” he tilts, with a fresh deprecating smirk.

“So what is it?”

Jack sighs, but the sound is lost in the chatty crowd of excited movie-goers. They’ve been in line for over twenty minutes, and they’re still only just barely halfway up the queue. Jack wouldn’t normally care about timeliness, but he’s justifiably just the tiniest bit on edge. What might have otherwise proven to be a perfect opportunity for people-watching has now undoubtedly turned into… _this_.

“It’s… the creepiness of it?” he answers vaguely, glancing up at the podium. The associates are still not collecting tickets. _Dammit_. Jack stares at the poker-faced cinema associates and pretends that’s all there is to say. However, at the pointed silence of his companions, Jack is forced to clarify. He turns to the ceiling, hoping for strength. “Eh. I don’t know. There’s just something, like, really unsettling about all the supernatural kind of stuff.”

Astrid blinks in surprise, and Hiccups pragmatically adds, “Which Game of Thrones has, too, by the way.” Jack eyes him pointedly over Astrid’s shoulder. Hiccups shrugs, not even a little bit contrite.

Astrid is one of the cleverest people he knows, but this is something so far out of her range of understanding that she literally cannot comprehend it: Astrid, the fierce, bloodthirsty little thing she is, theoretically knows no concept of fear. (Unless it’s got to do with heights—but that’s another story.)

“Then why the hell are you even here?” she asks. “Like—no offense, but really. And ‘creepy’ like what?”

Jack is maybe on the verge of finding an answer that is maybe _slightly_  less embarrassing than the truth—something, also, that does not reveal how his nightmares have always seemed the tiniest bit nastier than everybody else’s—but he ultimately fails. And Jack is all in favor of ignoring that first question completely—to which there is no possible excuse that would not be: (1) transparent, (2) half-assed, (3) lame or, in the very least, (4) betraying Hiccup’s confidence.

“Creepy like the White Walkers, for instance,” Hiccup answers readily, apparently having forgotten that he’s supposed to be working _with_  Jack—not against him. Hiccup ducks with a sheepish, apologetic grin when Jack sends him a look. _What_? Hiccup seems to smile. _Roll with it._

(Because Jack’s the third wheel.

Ha, fucking ha.)

“Oh,” says Astrid, though her tone signals the sudden brimming of a whole new slew of questions in her suspicious mind. She’s not judgmental; just surprised. “I didn’t know you were freaked out by them.”

“Well,” Jack hedges. “It’s not, like. _Freaked out,_  exactly—“

“Isn’t that stuff kind of blatantly obviously fake though?”

“Well… yeah. But that’s not really the point.“

“Is this why you won’t watch The Walking Dead with us? Because they’re kind of suspenseful and creepy like the other walkers? Is it a zombie thing? Is it because they’re all wintry and icy and stuff?”

“Uh. Well. That doesn’t exactly help, but—“

“This isn’t a zombie movie, you know,” Astrid butts in, the way she does when she’s trying to be helpful. Like she can make someone feel better by sheer force of will. Usually, between her Hiccup’s sense of persuasion, it sorta works.

Just... not right now.

“Look, I get what you’re tryin’ to do here—and,” Jack pauses, because the line has finally started to move. As the first patrons are allowed past the barrier, Jack catches a flash of platinum blonde hair. “It’s just sorta hard to explain,” he answers with obvious dissatisfaction. How had this conversation gotten stuck so tightly around _his_  issues? “It’s just a thing. It’s a weird thing. Okay?”

Astrid blinks, and Hiccup raises his eyes to the sky, probably wondering how he could have ever thought that this stupid plan might work. Or maybe he was begging the universe for Jack to at least _try_  being a little bit less than his usual level of difficult, or for the two of them both to stop acting so exceptionally awkward—and Jack belatedly realizes that maybe he’s not being the best wingman, here.

But Astrid shrugs, and lets it go. “Whatever,” she dismisses easily, and that’s that.

Jack throws them a disarming laugh anyway, just for good measure. ( _You’re here for Hiccup!_  he reminds himself. Wingman. Pawn. Highly-orchestrated scheme to play Third Wheel on a " _Not_ Date" then leave in the middle of a horror movie because of an-only-slightly-exaggerated weak constitution and give Hiccup a chance to be with Astrid alone.

Right.)

“Anyway,” he concludes, because he can’t help himself. “It’s less of a zombie thing and more of an undead thing.”

Astrid blinks, surprised. It appears for a moment as if she doesn’t know what to say. But now she has her answer at least, and that’s something. “That doesn’t seem so hard to explain,” she points out, half-annoyed and half-reassuring, which is just about how she usually sounds.

Jack shrugs, smiles, and doesn’t argue.

 

/ /

 

“Ohhhh,” says Anna, whose eyes are lit with all the awe and contentment of someone looking at an adorably small puppy (or a rather large diamond?) and _not_  at the soda-stained, gum-tacked, cheaply-upholstered seats of this town’s local movie theater. “This is so charming!”

Kristoff utters something unremarkable (“Uhh… sure?”) but diplomatic enough for Anna’s ears, and then releases a hefty sigh as he lowers himself into his seat on Anna’s left, right next to the aisle. Anna is making a fuss over the cup holders (“Look, Elsa—we get to share armrests!) and the fact that _these_  chairs do not recline and, because Elsa loves her sister, Elsa smiles and nods and comments at all points necessary, and tries not to get any leftover popcorn stuck to her shoe.

Tries not to wonder how the floors have acquired such stickiness.

They’re seated in the very back, center section, close to the aisle. Anna had said she wanted to watch the other people’s reactions to the movie just as much as she’d wanted to see the movie itself, and Kristoff hadn’t had much of a preference, as long as he had the leg room. Elsa, of course, knows that Anna’s choice wouldn’t allow for much efficiency in the way of making a quick exit—should such a situation arise—but at least up here they would have less of a chance of being recognized.

So here they are. It’s not exactly the luxury level of the one public theater they’ve come to occasionally know, and it’s a far stretch from their private theater on the Northern estate, but Anna so rarely asks for anything, and it’s simply not within Elsa’s power to deny her little sister’s wishes. Even if they _are_  a little odd.

“Anna, remind me, please: what is the premise of this film?”

“Well, it’s supposed to be, like—the best horror-thriller suspense-ride of the year, all crazy effects and creepy silences and horrifying, gruesome creatures and stuff—ohh! Look down there!”

The seats are filling up quickly, and Elsa realizes that the theater is much larger than she’d first realized. Most of the patrons are desperately claiming the centermost seats, attempting to reserve rows with articles of clothing and concession items, presumably for other members of their party. Elsa purses her lips, and discreetly glances to the stretch of empty seats to her other side. She doesn’t dare hope for them to remain empty for long—she’d pre-ordered these tickets, after all, for a reason—but it’s not too much to hope for her temporary neighbor to be someone polite, is it? Someone who will remain in their own space and quietly watch this flashy, doomed, garbage truck of a movie in respectable silence and keep any fallen popcorn to themselves?

Elsa thinks despairingly of the kind of activity that tends to take place in the darkest, deepest corners of a crowded movie theater, and frowns. Takes a look at the hordes of people filing into the front, with grotesque facial paintings and intentionally-torn clothing, often streaked with blots of blurry red. Anna is fascinated. Kristoff is comfortable. Elsa clears her throat, and reminds herself not to judge.

Perhaps it would be enough to hope for someone who simply isn’t covered in manufactured blood.

 

//

 

“Jesus,” Hiccups blurts, upon rounding the corner and earning his first glimpse of the theater. Astrid swears beneath her breath, and Jack is seized by the sudden, violent hope that they’ll be forced to turn right back around and go bowling tonight instead. But alas, “There’s gotta be seats somewhere.”

“We don’t have to all sit together, either,” Jack adds, as they follow the herd, starting up the aisles and glancing purposefully for any openings, any at all. “At this point, it might not be worth it to try.” Hiccup’s look is grateful and impressed… until Jack’s meaningful glance reminds him to _play it cool, dude, for god’s sake, pull yourself together_ and also, _give me some credit, man, you are not the only brilliant mischief-mastermind here, okay?_

“Don’t be stupid,” Astrid dismisses immediately. “We’re not gonna leave you alone, and especially not after all that fear of zombies nonsense.”

“It’s not—“

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Astrid mutters, then makes a beeline for the top. There’s five seats open in the very last row, whereas the few rows before it have only single or double spaces dotted randomly throughout. Hiccup still looks pleased, however, and Jack agrees that he should; Astrid hadn’t assumed splitting up would entail the separation of her and _Hiccup_ , after all.

Things get tight when they get to the top though, because people keep shifting and seating themselves, which means that their options might very well run out before they even make it to the final rows. Astrid’s getting antsy, and Hiccup’s getting nervous, and Jack is trying not to think very much about exactly where he is, and what he’s about to watch. Why is he doing this again?

“Perfect!” Astrid hisses, as victorious as any war general, and smiles triumphantly as she glances back to the two of them. Hiccup is distracted and besotted, and admittedly not acting entirely like himself, but he’s moving steadily enough not to draw Astrid’s suspicion. Jack observes with sinking resignation that, thanks to a young couple (covered in streaks of painted blood) on the far side, the five seats have been reduced now to three. Perfect, indeed.

 _One hour_ , Jack reminds himself, staring at a blank spot on the far-off wall. Astrid’s checking with the dude in the aisle seat, making sure that the seats are not saved. _Just one hour, and then you’ll make a break for it. One hour._

“Awesome, sweet, thanks,” Astrid beams down at the guy, who looks a little startled by the edge of conquest that still lingers in Astrid’s demeanor. The redheaded girl next to him is wicked cute, and super psyched to be here, and seems to be hitting it off with Astrid swimmingly, but Jack’s observations screech to a jarring halt when his eyes pass over to the young woman beside her. She can’t see him gaping, thankfully, because her focus is one hundred percent directed to her phone—bored and absent and uninterested—and Jack’s never been so trivially grateful in his life.

 _Please sit next to her, Astrid_ , Jack finds himself thinking, half without realizing it. His eyes are tracing the streaks of light in this girl’s bangs and Astrid’s wrapping up the small-talk with the other two near the aisle, and when it comes time for the three of them to file into the available seats, the guy is the only one to immediately stand. He’s big and hulking, so he slips out of his chair and lets Astrid pass, but the girl beside him only tucks her legs closer to her chest, grinning like this is some kind of magical sport.

 _Astrid, please_ , Jack grows slightly and irrationally desperate, eyeing the seat next to the blonde one, whose face he’s not yet actually fully seen. _Do_  not _let me sit next to this incredibly hot girl for an entire hour of embarrassment._

The girl in question, who is apparently not as unaware as she seems, stands even before Astrid manages a polite, “Excuse us,” though her eyes barely leave her phone. Dammit. Hot _and_  aloof. Probably has a high tolerance for suspense and gore and is the kind to sit quietly and unfazed through an entire movie of bloodshed, all the while looking impeccable. Just what he needs.

Astrid seems to contemplate, just for the tiniest of moments, over whether or not to sit in the first seat available to her. Deciding that she’d rather not have herself climbed over, she pushes onward to the seat two chairs farther down—closer to the center, anyway, right?—and just happens to look back over her shoulder as she does. He’s not sure what his face might look like, at this moment, but Astrid’s resulting grin is surprised, and amused, and gleaming with self-satisfaction.

Well, then.

Hiccup takes the seat next to Astrid, obviously, which leaves Jack—with a dry mouth and weak knees and clammy hands and everything—to take the seat directly next to girl he has now (not so flatteringly) privately, officially named Hot and Cold.

Astrid and Hiccup jump into a conversation immediately, and the couple on the far side of them are chatting quickly and quietly amongst themselves. Jack sits restlessly in his seat (Quick: sit tall, or slouch down? Elbows up on the armrests, or elbows trapped down below?) and tries not to glance at the illuminated screen of his neighbor’s phone.

His tongue is cotton, but silence sucks, so it’s only two minutes before Jack tilts his head to the side and asks, “You ready to watch a bunch of pointless, fake murder?”

It’s not his best, as far as opening lines go, which is made all the more dreadful by the fact that Hot and Cold doesn’t initially realize that he’s speaking to _her_ , and further by the pointed look of polite disdain she gives him after she does.

Hot Girl seems perplexed by his randomness, but Jack’s not sorry. He’s gotta give her some warning at some point about how this evening is going to go, after all, and now is as good a time as any. And it turns out he really likes looking at her face. This is gonna suck.

Jack stamps down his embarrassment and offers his best self-depreciating grin. “I’m not here by choice,” he admits.

The look she gives him is strange. Confused, and maybe a little amused, but mostly just the kind of amusement you get when you’re not really sure how else to react to something. Like looking at a puppy wearing a ridiculous cat costume, or an overly-large fake mustache. With a bow-tie. Yes, Jack thinks. She’s looking at him a little like he’s a cute-ugly puppy with a bow-tie. Endearing, but impractical.

“No?” she politely replies, and wow, holy crap, it is going to be really inconvenient to be sitting next to this beautiful girl in ten minutes when he gets reduced to nothing but a whimpering, crying ball on the floor.

He clears his throat, uncomfortable. “Nope.”

“You can still make a run for it, if you’re quick.”

(Hot, aloof, _and_  possibly filled with dry humor, honestly, this is really not what he needs. Or it's exactly what he needs. Either way, it’s not a good outlook for him.) Jack surreptitiously glances to the other two at his right, both of whom are contentedly engaged in easy conversation, and darts his eyes back to hers. Blue. Goddamn.

Her patience turns into a stare, because she’s still waiting for a response, and Jack has seemingly gotten distracted by her face, and her production of a full sentence. In his direction. What?

He licks his lips, because they’re suddenly so dry they’re almost cracking, and half-laughs, “I think I’d be taken out before I even hit the stairs.” Nods to his companions, the lovebirds.

Hot and Cold follows his gaze, just briefly, and—there it is again. That _jolt_  when she looks back at him, when their eyes meet. He is very painfully aware of where his cramped elbows are locked inside the walls of his shared armrests; of the feet resting flat on the floor, trapped inside his own self-imposed, invisible lines of space. She’s wearing jeans, he notices, and the color on her lips is not quite natural.

And her mouth is curling, just a bit, but she doesn’t say anything, so Jack thinks, _well—that’s that_. Her eyes subtly shift back to her phone, and Jack has been politely dismissed. He’s made his smalltalk, and he’s done his civil duty, so now there’s nothing left to do but sit, and dread, and wait.

The theater is still loud and the lights are still on, but the chatter has a new edge of anticipation to it that makes Jack think it won’t last for much longer. Left to his own devices, his discomfort only grows. Jack’s pulse jumps beneath his skin—he _wishes_  he could be blame it solely on a pretty girl—and his limbs twitch and itch and slip in agitation. His shoulders ache from keeping his elbows inside his space—moves his bony elbows up, then down, onto the armrest, then back again—until Hiccup’s barely audible hiss of, “Dude, _quit_  it!“ nearly rocks him out of his chair. Fuck it. Jack hitches his elbow up onto the armrest between him and Hiccup with little regard for personal boundaries, practically hanging over into his space, and lets his other rest with slightly less discomfort against his side—securely out of Hot and Cold’s domain.

The lights go dim and a whoop of excitement cries out through the crowd. His stomach plummets hard and fast, and then the crowd is shushing one another, alternately yelling out and calling for a hush, and it’s only because she’s so close to him that Jack hears her sigh.

The crowd is not quieting, but the theater is dark, and just before the first preview makes its debut, Jack—completely unable to prevent himself—leans slightly over their armrest barrier and gently whispers, dead-serious:

“Please don’t judge me if I scream.”

 

//

 

This is by far one of the most uncomfortable evenings of Elsa’s life.

It certainly makes Top Five, including the incident with the Weaselton CEO and the Toupee of Truth, as Anna had so diplomatically proclaimed. Perhaps this is even more awkward than the evening in which she’d been forced to politely accept a boxed set of jarred and pickled _something_  from her father’s business associate, the well-meaning and very kind, if very odd Oaken. Or the time she’d rejected Hans’ proposal of marriage, but that’s another story.

Elsa glances out of the corner of her eye to the set of knees directly to her right, and the particular way their owner has assiduously arranged them to be completely out of her way, even with so little room for himself. It can’t possibly be comfortable.

A blood-curdling scream is ripped from the throat of a rather unremarkable actress, and Elsa’s eyes dart to the screen just in time to see a distasteful display of orchestrated gore and impressively realistic spurts of blood. Disgusted, but mostly for the sake of society’s morbid tastes as a whole rather than any tinge of personal squeamishness, Elsa is in a perfect position to hear her neighbor’s involuntary and evidently displeased, “ _Ugh_.”

She looks back to his knees.

Her own legs are crossed rather politely, if not a bit stiffly from the twenty or so minutes that have already passed, and her hands are folded properly in her lap, if only to keep them from revealing how restless she truly feels. The young man next to her keeps alternating between slouching down so far in his seat that his nose is nearly level with her shoulders and sitting up so straight and tall that it’s fortunate that there is no one behind him.

Elsa forces her eyes back to the screen and placidly watches yet another victim fall prey. A chorus of disgusted and merry groans sound throughout the theater, and Anna is simultaneously delighted and completely grossed out all at once. Kristoff keeps making too-loud comments under his breath, full of unnecessary things such as, “would you look at _that_ “ and “damn, man, you are so _dead_.”

Anna, for her part, is equal parts absolutely delighted they’re here and inarguably regretful. While Anna may have loved the _idea_ of joining a hundred or so other patrons in a cultural experience of shared, mutual horror, it seems the actual experience is a little more gruesome than she’d thought. Anna is nothing if not brave, however, and to her credit, she has only hidden her face in Kristoff’s chest twice.

 _Kristoff_ , Elsa smirks, _would probably not object to more._

The other movie-watchers farther down the aisle are too far away for Elsa to examine closely, and truth be told the constant nightscape and deep shadows of the screen before her make it almost impossible for Elsa to see much of anything not immediately around her. Even after a half hour of having adjusted to the lack of light, Elsa can only really make out two things: the fact that Anna has shifted almost completely over to Kristoff’s side… and the relative shape and placement of her neighbor’s knees. She does not look at him directly, though she guesses that she could probably make out the rest of him in the dark, if she tried.

Just for the sake of experimentation, Elsa shifts her eyes up the stretch of denim beside her, all the way up to his thighs. She does not allow her head to move, or her expression to falter, because Anna—in her determination and curiosity—has become _impossible_  to hide things from, especially lately. It does not help, of course, that Anna seems to be learning more and more of what to look for.

(Which means that Elsa is cautious of where she looks, herself.)

So Elsa dutifully watches the plotless, mindless charade for another few minutes, acutely aware all the while of every twitch and shift her neighbor undergoes. The whole theater seems to be switching between restlessness and stillness, and the young man behind her appears to be suffering at least twice as strongly as all the rest.

They are nice thighs, she decides.

 

/ /

 

Hiccups owes him big time. Bigger than big time.

Like ‘this guy deserves to get a fucking _robot_ , so build him one‘ big time. The protagonist has just witnessed some particularly brutal handiwork with a scythe, and something about the darkness and shadows just does not sit well with Jack. _Ten more minutes_ , he thinks. _Then I’m gone_.

And when a truly shady character takes down another row of unsuspecting humans, scythe and all, Jack grimaces into the shadows and amends, _Five_.

//

 

As the supposed plot begins to thicken, so do the grotesquely deep pools of blood. The left knee of her neighbor bounces with antsy movement, with a steady and persistent rhythm that is impressively uninterrupted, and the tension he radiates is infectious. As the movie takes a turn for the less bloody and the more suspenseful, the young man goes still. He becomes absolutely rigid with tension, and Elsa cannot help but be affected. Her shoulders are beginning to ache.

She loosens them in small, careful circles, and reflects on the possible consequences of allowing herself to take up the tiniest bit more space; Anna _seems_  thoroughly preoccupied, but of course that may mean nothing.

(She did not miss the way Anna had eyed him earlier, had sent Elsa quick and meaningful glances when the young man and his friends were first traveling up the aisle. She had not missed the way Anna’s eyes silently demanded Elsa’s attention to his easy manner and attractiveness and _Elsa, look! I found another one for you! Maybe you could—?_ )

Elsa had thus been purportedly ignorant, and studiously devoted to the art of Not Humoring Her Sister.

But then again, perhaps Anna has other things to worry about.

A shuddered round of gasp-screams ring throughout the theater at the very abrupt appearance of a horrid face from the shadows, and Elsa is doubly surprised by all the surrounding shrieks as well as the halting, spaztic abruptness of her neighbor’s movements.

“—oh,” he mutters, and twists haphazardly in his seat, then jerks himself back into order. She glances his way, but his eyes are grimacing at the screen. He does not seem to realize that he has taken hold of her hand. “ _FUck_.“

In the dark, Elsa bites back her smile.

 

//


End file.
